Escapism
by sovngarded
Summary: After half a year of being imprisoned in Riften's jail for trying to swipe treasures from the pocket of parading Thalmor, an eighteen year old Brynjolf is taken into the Thieves Guild by none other than their guild master, the infamous Mercer Frey. M/M slash fic. Mercer/Brynjolf and possibly smaller parings down the line for plot purposes.
1. Jail Break

Hey readers, this is my very first fanction I've written about the Elder Scrolls series and also the first I've posted here on . Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the first chapter. Reviews are always welcome, as well as question, comments, and grammar correction. ^^;

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The dark had been something Brynjolf had been accustomed to long before behind thrown unceremoniously into the Riften jail at a young age. He was only seventeen, a wide-eyed boy with bloody red hair chopped to his jawline when he was caught with his hand in the pocket of a Thalmor. He'd never been so much as even seen before that moment, but a man beside him had caught his hand and jerked it back violently, giving away his cover. His arms were seized as he struggled, but the soldiers of the hold were older, stronger than he. So he was tossed in the hole for a half a year, alone. Some of the guards pitied him, telling him war stories as he listened quietly, never responding but always immersed in them.

And then one night another prisoner was thrown into the cell next to him, lips dribbling with blood and bruises across his cheekbones. He was a man older than himself, and the way he grinned through the pain intrigued Brynjolf. And then after the guards left him, the man was on his feet, hands pressing to the walls of brick behind him, searching for something Brynjolf didn't know. And he found a lockpick stowed away within the cracks.

The Nord stared on, mouth shut and head tilted. The man wound his hand around to the front of the lock, easing the lockpick into the keyhole and beginning to tease it like a familiar lover. The sight was oddly fascinating. The Breton picked his way out in a matter of seconds, easing the barred gate open and tossing back his mane of light brown hair, wiping the blood away from his face with the back of his hand.

And then in the flickering shadows of torch light, he strode towards Brynjolf's cell, head held high.

"Stupid kid got himself locked up, didn't he? Weren't you the one who tried to pick the pockets of that damned Thalmor a while back?" The Breton put a hand on his hip, nose wrinkling in distaste.

The young Nord stared right back, emerald eyes glinting and brow furrowing.

"What's your name, little man?"

"Brynjolf, sir." His thick accent wound his way through cracked words, causing the older man to sneer.

"Mercer Frey, head of the Thieves Guild. I think we could use someone moldable like you."

And in an instant, Brynjolf's cell door was swung open. Mercer seized his forearm, pulling him roughly along with him, back into his empty cell. Mercer pulled hand on the broken shackle on the wall, and the old bricks crumbled down to leave a space just large enough for them to crawl through.

And they did; traveling through the tunnels flooded with water that ran under Riften. Everything was soaked with the smell of old ocean and rotting wood. But then as Brynjolf's knees began to feel weak, the man in front of him pushed open one of the wooden doors they'd nearly passed by.

A tavern? No, the Ragged Flagon. The orphans had made up legends about this place; tales spun for boredom and quiet wonder. The Nord had expected them to be just that; tales. But this seemed real to him. Especially when the back of his head was grabbed and twisted around, forcing tears to his eyes. He was pulled to a man's face, and felt his stomach drop when he was forced to meet the man's yellow glare.

"Vekel doesn't like strangers snooping around the Flagon," he snarled, tensing his huge hand around the redhead's neck.

Brynjolf heard Mercer sigh behind him, sounding utterly annoyed by the display.

"He's not a stranger, just a dumb kid. I'm taking him in, so piss off, Dirge."

The man released Brynjolf, who barely stopped himself from crumpling to his knees from the height he was dropped from. Dirge bent to his level, teeth bared like a wild animal as he hissed.

"I don't care if you're best buddies with the Guild Master. I'll still smash in your skull if you try anything."

The words were muttered into the Nord's ear, sending anger down his spine. He stood up, hooking the man square in the jaw with his left fist, causing him to stumble backwards into a few stacked crates. Behind him, Mercer barked a laugh and grabbed his arm hard.

"I think he'll fit in well," a brunette Nord woman chimed in, smirking at Brynjolf as Mercer dragged the boy away from the furious man and into the cistern. The redhead looked back long enough to see the woman wink at him and give him a sly smile. And he gave her a lopsided grin back.

Mercer pushed him through the door of the cistern, and Brynjolf stumbled into the room, his bare feet sliding unsteadily on the slick stone floor. The huge room seemed to be flooded, housing beds and chests along torch lit walls. It was empty except for the two men, and Mercer slammed the door shut behind him.

"This is it. Nothing special and it's fallen in to quite the disrepair in the past years. Follow me."

His voice was commanding and loud, and its quality hurt Brynjolf's ears in a way that he almost found pleasing. He obeyed the guild master, who walked over to a table and rifled through its drawers, yanking out brown leather armor pieces and shoving them at him. He kicked boots out from under the table, and Brynjolf scooped them up.

"Get dressed."

"Aye." The Nord lifted off his shirt, shoving on the leather and feeling oddly weighted down by it. He jumped into the pants, tying them up as Mercer flipped through a book on his desk, his face lined with annoyance. The Nord slipped on his boots, strapping them and then finally buckled on the bracers, face red with embarrassment as he realized the man had been watching him for the last half of the show.

And then wordlessly, the Breton took something paper-wrapped out of his desk, holding it out to Brynjolf, who hesitated, unsure of whether to take it or not.

"Eat up. There's work to be done and I haven't got all day."

The Nord accepted the food, unwrapping it and taking bites of the cheese and bread it contained. Brynjolf wanted to break the bread open, to hold it against his nose and smell it even though it wasn't warm. The cheese was cool to the touch, and the Nord had to hold himself back from eating it all right then and there. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had something to eat, let alone something that was as sweet and soft as the simple crusted bread in his hands. The thought sent a little twinge of pain to him, and he knew Mercer saw it flash through his eyes.

"Been awhile?" His voice was a little softer, but not much. The haughty tone still remained and grated on Brynjolf's nerves a bit.

Brynjolf nodded, a short sigh escaping him as he swallowed.

"You don't need to worry about that anymore; do your jobs right and you'll be walking around this skeeverhole of a town with a pocket full of coin. But get caught and I am not coming back to get you. Understand?"

For some reason, Brynjolf could sense a lie within his last words. But he simply nodded.

"Aye, sir."

"I'm going to give you a piece of advice, kid. You'd better not get yourself involved with Sapphire. I saw how she looked at you. Even for a thief she's a sneaky bitch and I trust her about as far as you could throw her."

"So you fancy her?"

Mercer looked him dead in the eyes, the muscles on his nose pulling up like a dog with a snarl. "No. I mean what I said."

"Aye."

And then the man's mouth pulled up into a smirk. "I want you to do some fishing for me, kid. Her name's Haelga and she's got something that rightfully belongs to the guild; a dagger. Slip in the whore's house and take it. Don't let her talk you into staying if she sees you."

"What was that?"

"Take her dagger, get out. I thought I made myself clear." Brynjolf could hear the man clench his teeth, and he swallowed a grin.

"I'll be back in five minutes."

The guild master narrowed his eyes. "Don't count on it, and don't get cocky."

The redhead grinned, walking towards the ladder off to the side. He pulled himself up, climbing the rungs and pushing the wooden manhole open, easing through it and pulling the chain hanging down to his right. The ceiling slid away, and the thief grinned. Brilliant. Perfectly hidden in plain view right in the cemetery.

Not a soul recognized him as he walked through the streets of Riften, memories hitting him hard as his boots made the wood under them creak nicely. Haelga stood at a market stand, flirting heavily with the dark elf running it. Brynjolf walked past her, swiping the dagger from its holster with a quick flick of his wrist. She felt and suspected nothing as she inched forward, elbows on the counter, head in her hands as she sweet talked Brand-Shei. Like taking a sweetroll from a dead man.

Brynjolf headed back, looping around the walkway and back through the graveyard, down into the cistern again. He lowered himself from the ladder and twirled the warm knife in his hands, smiling toothily at Mercer as the man raised a brow. The Nord placed the dagger in the table, noting the light from the torches slipping away from the metal in an unnatural way, twisting into something more like fire in the reflection it shone. The weapon had to be enchanted; that's why it was something Mercer wanted.

"Alright," Mercer muttered, rolling his eyes. "So you can be fast. But don't think luck like that is going to save your ass in the long run, kid." An orange sack of coin, tied at the top with yellow twill, was pushed his way and Mercer dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Isn't there anything else for me to do?"

The guild master stared at him, steel colored eyes icy as they bored into his own green one's.

"Nothing you can handle, little boy." His teeth were gritted, face tensed like an feral wolf.

Brynjolf let a sneer escape him. "I'm more capable than you seem to think, old man."

The strap across his chest was seized, and Mercer tugged the redhead forward, his face deadly serious. Brynjolf could almost feel rage radiating from him. He shut his eyes and tensed, waiting for the strike that never came. Instead, he slowly opened them to see Mercer's teeth bared. He felt himself being further forced into the desk, his hips pressed against the wood as his chest nearly leaned over it.

"I don't employ smartasses, _Brynjolf_." The way his name hissed like poison from the man's teeth send a shiver down the younger man's spine.

And for a second, the Nord tensed and he could have sworn that the other man was about to close the thin gap between their faces and kiss him. The stray thread of thought made Brynjolf's ears redden, and the other man released him as he opened his mouth cautiously to say something.

"Do a sweep of the city. Steal valuables as you see fit. Break into houses. At this point I don't care if you get caught. Out of my sight."

"Aye."

The Nord backed away, turning around and making his way back up the ladder and to town, his heart still fluttering like a bird trapped in his ribcage.


	2. Pet

Ahhh! Hello again everyone and thank you so much for the follows! I wrote this chapter with a cat walking periodically across my laptop, so feel free to point out errors I've made and I'll fix them as soon as I can. I hope you all enjoy the chapter and thank you so much for reading!

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Walking through the streets of the dim city, Brynjolf's mind ran wild with thought. He could run away right now. No one would care. He could go to Whiterun or maybe even Winterhold to start a new life free from this place and the memories it held. He had enough gold in that sack to rent a carriage there or at least most of the way. He felt no positive ties to this place, nothing holding him here. He could join the war if he wanted to and no one could stop him. Perhaps dying as a solder fighting for the Nords would serve him better in Sovngarde than being killed as a simple petty thief. His feet carried him to the gates of the city, body urging on what his head was encouraging. But as he reached the huge doors, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The only thing stopping him was… Mercer. He felt an inexplicable pull to please the man, and it sent waves of blood to his already ruddy cheeks. The guild master acted aloof, even sometimes furious towards him. But in his own way, he felt he need to prove himself, as he'd never been tempted to do before because he'd never had to. No, wait. He didn't have to. He was his own man now, of age, strong, with no ties anywhere, no family to now, nowhere to call home.

But Mercer held him here with an iron grasp. He owed him his freedom, as strange as that sounded, but he didn't feel enslaved. On the same token, the feral look in Frey's eyes as he'd expressed his distaste for Brynjolf's attitude set him off slightly. But the rest made up for it, and the look in the man's grey eyes made him wonder who he really was. It made him want to understand.

And so he turned on his heel, slipping away into the shadows of tall houses cast by the high sun. He slipped through windows, grabbing jewels, baubles, and potions, slipping them into the odd pockets he was still discovering up and down the leather armor. After emptying out the still house, he simply slid back through the open window, not even disturbing the dust lacing the wood. This town was ridiculously easy to take advantage of.

He was still shoving things into his bag as his feet landed on the stone ground below the window. To his left, a guard had his back turned to him, too immersed with a Nord woman walking by in a tavern dress to be bothered by the fact that he'd just broken into someone's home and stolen their valuables. He smirked, slinking to the shadows nevertheless. The walk back to the guild's quarters was painless. Again he slipped into the faux mausoleum and down the hatch, his feet carefully leading him down the rickety wooden ladder. Mercer glared daggers at him as he emptied his satchel onto the man's desk, causing him to grimace.

Truly, Brynjolf wanted nothing more than to tease the man mercilessly. Even now as Frey probably cursed him internally, he swore to the Nines that he could see a smile tugging at the corners of the man's lips. Another bag of Septims was shoved at him, and he took it gladly.

"Speak to Delvin in the Flagon. He needs a man for a local job."

"Who is Delvin?"

The Breton lifted his head from his ledger, a completely irritated look crossing his face. It took everything in the Nord not to burst out into laughter.

"He'll know who you are. Walk in and he'll call you over. Do as he says and don't question him."

"Aye."

Mercer caught Brynjolf's gaze and set his jaw before narrowing his eyes at him. "Don't go near Sapphire while you're there."

Brynjolf smirked, raising a red brow. "You sure you don't fancy her?"

"Stop wasting my time."

The Nord turned, a grin on his face as he strode away, leaving Frey to contemplate if he could nail him in the back with a dagger at this distance.

Brynjolf shouldered open the door to the Ragged Flagon to have the bartender cast a smirk at him.

"Mercer's new pet, are you?"

Brynjolf was taken aback at this and opened his mouth to protest, but was beckoned over by a man in dark leather. He was sitting hunched over at one of the wooden tables, a bottle of mead in his fist and a plate of horker meat in front of him. As Brynjolf went to him, his mouth turned up in what seemed to be an honest smile.

"Pull up a seat and have a drink on me. We have business to discuss."

So he did, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of the table and easing himself into it. The man who had accused him of being Frey's plaything put a freshly opened bottle of mead in front of him wordlessly. Brynjolf took a swallow, letting the bitter liquid warm his throat and burn it's way down his chest.

The man nodded at him before continuing. "I need to explain a couple things to you about this job. First off, I don't want Mercer getting involved. You understand? Lie to him if you hav'ta."

A quick nod was all Brynjolf gave him.

"Good. You're breaking into the jail under the Keep. Not for a prisoner, but for something that was left there by one of the... past tenants. The guild member isn't of any use to us now, but the letter in his pocket was. It should be in the possession's chest just inside the jail. Sneak in, take it, and get out."

Brynjolf lifted his head, mischievous green eyes swimming with questions. "Why can't Mercer know?"

Delvin smiled a bit, then sighed. "He told me to scrap the thing and cut our losses, but if we had that little slip of paper in our hands we could be richer than we've been in ages. He can know after the job is done."

"Alright, I'll do it if the pay is good."

The man grinned lopsidedly. "A man after my own heart. The pay will be quite handsome if you don't muck it up. No killing, no getting caught. If you do, we've never heard of you. Understand?"

"Aye."

"Go back the way Mercer drug you here from. Easy enough."

The Nord stood, turning away to walk off the creaking planks that made up the floor. He could have sworn he heard Delvin's brow furrow behind him, and as he exited the Flagon he felt numerous eyes on his back that sent his nerves to pieces.

Something was wrong, but he had no clue what. There had to be a reason someone like Mercer would have called the operation quits. But against all of his instincts, he continued his journey through the Ratway, ducking between bars and feeling his way down the dark and damp hallways.

Surely this wasn't a set up? Delvin didn't know him well enough to want to dispose of him yet. And if he was Mercer's so-called "plaything", then why wouldn't they want to guild master out of their hair? If anything he was a distraction.

But he pressed on, pushing the thought out of his head. The hole in the wall was still there, and he peeked his head in to survey the room, his face hidden by the pitch dark. Almost immediately to his left was an open chest with various items stocked inside. A guard was walking down the hallway, his hand on the pommel of the steel sword in his sheath. He turned on his heel, making his way back down the hallway. Patrolling.

Shit.

Brynjolf was fast, but he didn't quite know _how_ fast. The lid to the possession's chest was open already; he wouldn't even have to pick the lock. He judged the distance, biting he inside of his cheek and waiting, fingers curled to the brick wall. The guard about faced again, continuing the route as a prisoner heckled him from a cell. Some sort of divine must have been on his side, because the solider strode to the man's cell and began to bark crude words to him as the man screamed back in frustration, his voice raw and broken. Then the guard reached through the bars and pulled the man to the front of the cell by his ragged shirt, forcing the prisoner to cringe as he taunted him. It was then Brynjolf slipped out to the chest, plunging his hand inside as the two quarreled down the way from him.

Ah.

His hand touched paper, and he swiped it, tearing open the seal with a quick movement. The Thieves Guild shadowmark was etched into the bottom. This had to be it. He slipped back into darkness, the lack of light accepting him easily as he slid through the gap in the wall.


	3. Cornered

(A/N: Thank you all so much for the favorites and follows, I feel so honored! I'm happy to be giving this pairing a little bit of love. The M rating kicks in at this point; slash, smut, and some language tossed into this heap of words. Hope you all enjoy this chapter, and again thank you for reading.)

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Brynjolf was back in the Flagon about an hour after leaving it. Delvin gave him a smirk as he pushed the letter towards him, taking it into eager hands and reading over it.

"Yes, that is it. You've done us a good deal, kid. Here."

A sack of gold was pushed his way, and the Nord nodded in appreciation as he felt the weight of it in his hand. "So tell me about this job, Delvin."

The man only smirked, casting a sidelong look at Vex. "Too many ears. Some other time."

"Aye, understood."

"Remember, not a word to Frey. If he asks, you pocketed a few keys from the Bee and Barb."

Brynjolf nodded, pocketing his share and walking away. As he reached the side of the table, Delvin tugged once at one of the straps of his tunic.

"I'll have more work for you tomorrow, when things are cleaner. I suggest you take them without question."

The Nord nodded, walking down the dimly lit hallway and back into the cistern. Mercer's eyes were on him as soon as he shouldered open the door, like a hawk to prey below.

"Not so fast are you, Brynjolf?"

The Nord cast an unamused look at the man, catching sight of a smile curving across the Breton's face.

"Faster than you could be, old man."

"Did you do the damn job well at least?"

Brynjolf paused, his mind searching for words. "Aye. Simple enough." He crossed his arms as Mercer strode towards him, effectively getting the younger man to press back against the stone wall of the cistern without having remembered being intimidated into stepping backwards.

Frey leaned an elbow to the wall, his hips swaying to balance him as he stood.

Brynjolf felt like a cornered tavern maid. His heart picked up pace as he tried to maintain a steady expression.

"Did you speak to Sapphire?"

"No."

"What did Delvin ask you to do?"

"Why am I being interrogated?"

For a moment, Frey lost composure, his teeth gritting and his jaw tightening. He dropped it within a second, but Brynjolf had just enough time to see the display.

"I won't ask you again, kid. I'm on a need to know basis and as your superior I demand to know what my guild is doing."

"You won't be very surprised. Delvin wanted a few keys to the Bee and Barb stolen for later use."

Mercer smiled again, softer, eyes more dangerous. "I doubt that."

"He'll tell you just as I did." Brynjolf arched a red brow, challenging the man to question him.

"You're lying through your teeth, aren't you boy?" His voice was dropped to a murmur and the Nord bit his lip, steeling himself. "Tell me."

"I swiped keys from the Bee and Barb, like I said before."

"I can make you talk if you're unwilling."

The subtle threat sent shivers up Brynjolf's spine, and he realized Mercer's intent as he studied the man's face. He wasn't someone to be trifled with. But Brynjolf had been paid to do his job and shut his mouth, and he wasn't anything if not loyal to Septims. And yet Frey's voice channeled arousal straight between Brynjolf's legs. Great.

And Frey _knew_ it.

"What's wrong, Brynjolf? Khajiit got your tongue?" His voice was nothing more than a husky, demanding whisper. It sent more blood straight down, and Brynjolf shifted as far back into the wall as he could go. Mercer pressed forward, the bones of his hips digging deliciously into Brynjolf's. The younger felt his eyes start to roll back, but he swallowed it down, heart thumping.

Instead, he put on the most indifferent face he could muster in the current circumstance.

"I did what you asked, and I answered your question. Fuck off, Mercer."

Frey smiled gently, hips pressing just a bit deeper into the Nord's. "You're standing here cornered against a wall. You could easily slip away from me, but you're too aroused to leave."

Brynjolf's face went pink, and he shook his mane of red hair, trying to find words to protest what was true.

And then Mercer moved away and dropped to his knees.

Brynjolf's pants were tugged down with a sharp movement, and left his head loll back on his shoulders as his arousal hit cool air.

After a few moments of silence, the Nord looked down to see Mercer's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. The Breton spit into his hand and took Brynjolf's cock, beginning to stroke it with horridly slow and teasing movements of his wrist. The redhead let his mouth fall open soundlessly as he leaned backwards against the stone wall, trying desperately to find purchase for his fingers against the slick stone. Grey eyes met green, and then Mercer knelt to his knees, sliding forward and taking the Nord's cock into his mouth.

Brynjolf closed his eyes, a small appreciative groan that sounded a lot like Mercer's name slipping from between his lips. He tried desperately not to buck, biting the insides of his cheeks to try and deter himself. But the hot tightness around him was proving to be difficult not to explore. And then Frey tugged his hips up and began to move.

"F-fuck, Frey…" he panted, mind going blank as he felt the man's tongue begin to run across the underside of him. He was already close, he could feel arousal coiling into his stomach and into his spine, and he was biting his hand to try and hold out for the feeling Mercer was giving him.

The Breton dropped him with a lewd wet _pop_ and immediately took him in his hand again, his pace picking up. Brynjolf bit back a moan as he arched his hips a few more times and finally came into Mercer's hand, whimpering and sliding bonelessly down the wall as the Breton released him. He lifted his head to see Frey lift his hand to his face and clean it with his tongue, eyes locked onto the Nord's.

"Mercer…"

The man stood up over Brynjolf, arching a brow before walking away from his crumpled form wordlessly, leaving the man's chest heaving and legs shaking.

Frey's voice was a growl as he pushed open the door leading to the Flagon.

"I'll deal with Delvin now. Don't think I'm done with you either."

Brynjolf could only nod as Mercer slammed the door shut behind him.


	4. With Me

(A/N: Thank you all so much for the favorites, follows, and reviews. Every time I get one I break out into a smile. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.)

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Brynjolf was left on the floor of the cistern, trying to yank his leathers up around his waist again with what little strength his fingers still possessed. The dark grip of need for Mercer's hands clenched his throat with iron vice and he shut his eyes tightly, steadying his breathing.

Too much had happened today. Brynjolf steadied himself as he pushed thoughts out of his head and snapped his belt back into place on his hips, buckling it deftly with a shaking hand. He stood up on knees that threatened to cave in, exhausted, and stumbled to one of the empty beds that flanked the round walls. The Nord collapsed into it, face pink in the center as he realized how easily he'd given into Mercer. The last thing on his mind before he fell into sleep was the quick thought of whether Delvin would work things out or not.

He didn't dream.

He woke, eyes hot and blurry as a hand gripped his shoulder. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide as he processed where he was. A pale woman with a sharp face held the top of his arm, stare commanding and clear.

"What the hell did you do?"

Her voice was a hiss between clenched teeth, and the sound sent shivers through Brynjolf.

"I did what Delvin asked, nothing more. I swear."

She shook her mane of platinum hair, lip curling in distaste and frustration. "I mean to Mercer. What did you _do_?"

"I, eh, I didn't do anything… miss."

She grabbed him roughly, yanking him to his feet. "It's Vex," she growled, eyebrows furrowing as she pulled him along the walkway and shoved him into the door leading the cistern.

"Go look," she spat, turning away with fire in her silver eyes. He pushed the door open, blood hammering in his ears. Brynjolf didn't know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn't in his favor. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes one last time before sliding open the false panel of the cupboard, slipping into the Ragged Flagon. The Nord rounded the corner, his jaw dropping open at the scene in front of him.

A Redguard woman in sleeveless guild armor held bloody rags in her hands, pressing her weight to Hold Delvin flat against the stone wall. Vekel crouched over the man, pressing his fingers to Delvin's nose and pulling down hard.

With several sickening pops, Delvin groaned, cursing heavily, and Brynjolf realized he'd just witnessed Vekel resetting the Breton's nose. The Nord moved away, casting a look to the woman, who stared back, a hard look on her face.

"It's not the kid's fault," she said firmly, oblivious to Brynjolf's presence in the room. She rocked back onto her heels, handing a clean rag to Delvin, who took it to clasp to his face as he twisted uncomfortably with receding pain.

"It wouldn't have happened if he weren't here," Vekel shot back in his thick voice, sitting down on the smooth stone floor.

"Look, Vekel. I don't care what you think right now. This isn't about the pet; Mercer got upset and there's nothing we can do until he gets back. You better back off; don't even _look_ at the kid."

Delvin watched the argument in front of him, then finally spoke. His voice had changed; the accent becoming nasally and lazy because of his flawed nose. "It's 'm own fault. I'm not mad at Mercer for what he did. I gave the kid something that shouldn't have been done and Frey knew."

"The pet probably told him," Vekel accused in a growl.

"No, he didn't. Brynjolf is hasty, but he seems eager to please. He understands business. " He inhaled sharply, wincing at the whistle his nose made. "He wouldn't."

The woman gave Delvin a sharp nod, then stood up, catching sight of Brynjolf in the entrance, silent.

"It's fine," she said sharply, taking Vekel by the arm and leading him away, back to the bar. Delvin gave Brynjolf a sly grin, the left side of his face squeezing up with pain.

"I'm sorry, Delvin. I didn't know, I didn't even tell him-"

The Breton waved it away, shaking his head. "Mercer is always one step ahead of everyone. He guessed it as soon as 'e saw the look on m' face when he walked into the Flagon." Delvin chuckled, then stared up at Brynjolf with still watering eyes. "He managed to knock me down flat b'fore I had a chance to explain. Snatched the letter right outta my pocket and left with Chillrend. Not sure where he's goin', but he's goin' fast."

Brynjolf's mind clawed, trying to find a reason and failing. "Where would he be?"

Delvin took a thick breath, wincing. "I'd check his place, Riftweald Manor, before you go 'newhere else. You'll know where it is. Jus' go in through the back gate."

"Aye."

He turned to leave, to be caught once again by the Breton. "There's a glass sword on the bar top. It's your's, you've earned it."

"Thank you."

Delvin cleared his throat with a gurgle, nasally voice not clearing in even the slightest when he spoke again.

"Don't hurt Mercer."

Brynjolf turned, clear green eyes filling with worry. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The Breton grinned, wincing and folding the bloody side of his cloth over to ruin the other side. "I knew it."

"You knew what?"

"Nothin'. Go on."

The Nord strode over to the bartop under the eagle sharp eyes of Vekel. Snatching the sword, he clipped on the scabbard to his belt and sheathed it.

"Good luck," Delvin chuckled as the Nord exited the Ragged Flagon, leaving Brynjolf to wonder how much Delvin knew.

The climb up the ladder was getting easier now. He pulled himself up to the top and pushed open the wooden manhole with ease now. Climbing out, he pulled down the iron chain down and the top of the ceiling slid back, allowing him to climb the stairs. In a few moments he was at the manor, his linked set of lockpicks in hand as he tried to pick the back gate. The first couple of time bent the metal, but finally he found the sweet little click and turned the handle, opening it. The rest was easy to figure out, and he jumped to the notched walkway, yanking himself up and swinging his legs over to ease himself up. Perhaps it wasn't the most graceful thing to witness, but brute strength sometimes served purpose.

The backdoor wasn't even locked. The Nord smiled without humor and pushed open the door.

Silence.

The blurred outline of dusty footprints lead him forward and down a well-lit hallway that was lined with expensive looking rugs rolled up and cast aside. Random bowls of precious gemstones littered tables and tested Brynjolf's loyalty with a vengeance. Thieves didn't steal from other thieves, right? His fingers itched nonetheless.

His quick eyes caught a slightly open wardrobe over in the small room to his side. Walking over, he pulled the sides open further and peered inside, into the dark. With a quick, deep breath, Brynjolf stepped inside, slipping into darkness.

His feet hit stone, soft pats on the surface under him. The Nord held the weapon to keep it from brushing against the walls or hitting his leg, trying his damnedest to be as silent as he could. Brynjolf slid down the hallway, his right hand guiding him along the wall. And then his hand hit something that wasn't stone, wasn't grating. A warm hand closed on his wrist, and he was yanked forward and dragged into the thick dark.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

Frey's voice was a growl deep in his throat. Brynjolf could feel his pulse quicken. A hand seized his neck with just enough pressure to make him gasp, and he was pressed against the wall behind him with ease. He could barely see Frey's flash of teeth and the shine of his eyes in front of him.

"Why did you hit Delvin?"

The grip on his neck slacked, and Mercer groaned. "Sometimes, things need to be done to _get_ things done. Or to stop them. Delvin was meddling in old guild business he shouldn't have had a hand in."

Brynjolf was released and he sighed in relief, taking gulps of air and raising his hands to his throat, rubbing the stretched skin. Mercer turned his back, walking away into the pitch dark of the hallway.

"And he put you in danger."

The Nord felt the slick cold of uneasiness lick his spine as the words fell from the Breton's lips.

"Mercer."

"Leave. I have business to take care of."

"No."

It was an order that Brynjolf had to refuse. He braced himself as the man whipped back, open hand shoving Nord's chest hard, forcing him against the wall. The breath was knocked partially out of him, and his incoming plea was muffled when teeth and lips crashed down onto his mouth, replaced with a needy, half-strangled moan. Mercer's tongue dipped into Brynjolf's mouth, and he met the slick muscle with his own, arousal growing in his chest. After a few moments, Frey pulled away from him violently, nipping his bottom lip hard.

"Come to the light."

It was an enticing offer in every single way it could be interpreted. Brynjolf nodded and Frey grabbed hold of one of the belts on the Nord's chest, tugging him into the soft flickering light of the sparse torches on the wall. As soon as his feet hit light, he was thrown down onto the floor by the Breton, who straddled his waist carelessly, pressing his weight directly onto Brynjolf's arousal.

Hands roamed his chest appreciatively, and he began to deftly undo the buttons clasping the thick leather to the base of Brynjolf's throat, pulling the material away. Mercer's teeth came down onto Brynjolf's freshly exposed collarbone, nipping his hard enough to draw blood to the surface of his skin. Brynjolf moaned, lifting his head up shamelessly to give Mercer more room to roam.

Brynjolf was hardly aware of his own hands reaching downward toward the front of Mercer's pants. Lips were crushed to his own, and Frey's fingers fisted into the sides of his blood red hair. His hips bucked up, fingers straying from their task, and he felt the Breton's arousal press thickly against his thigh. Frey's vice dropped to little more than a low feeling in Brynjolf's chest as he groaned with appreciation, rutting down into the younger.

In his haze, Brynjolf pressed a hand to the man's chest.

"Come back with me."

Frustration creased Mercer's forehead, and anger flashed in his eyes. He wrenched himself away from the man and gave him an annoyed sigh, standing fully and not bothering to help the other up.

"I have things to do."

"Then take me with you."

Frey's foot pressed down onto his chest, and Brynjolf could feel the Breton restraining himself from simply shifting his weight and crushing his chest. The realization was terrifying and at the same time intriguing.

Mercer glared down at him, clenching his hand into a hard, white knuckled fist.

"_Fine_."


	5. Preparing

Mercer's foot moved off his chest, and Brynjolf met the Breton's angry scowl with calm green eyes.

"I'm going back to the Flagon to tell everyone we're leaving."

Mercer's lip curled in regret and the Nord cast him a sideways glare as his throat muscles tightened. "They sent you to check on me?"

"Aye."

The brunette scoffed, his teeth gritting. "Tell them we'll be back in a few days and not to wait. Tell Delvin he's been moved up and that he's in charge while I'm gone."

"Aye."

"Grab everything you're going to need on your way out. Food's on the table."

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow as the man's voice softened at the end of his offer. Green eyes met grey and then Mercer's lip curled. "Hurry up before I change my mind," he barked.

The Nord nodded, walking back down the dimly lit hallway and back into the main house, his chest aching, jaw tight, and still feeling the thrum of arousal in his head. It wasn't fair how easily Mercer could get him riled up and ready to go like a bitch in heat. He felt weak and it brought a flash of heat to his face.

Before leaving the house, Brynjolf swiped a sweetroll, holding it between his teeth as he grabbed a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve mead and leaving the house with his spoils and a slight smirk. He shut the front door behind him, feet hitting the stone path that wound lazy around the city and its walkways. Holding the mead between his first fingers, he bit into the roll and almost drooled, forgetting what sweet tasted like on his tongue. Skirting along the shadows, he came to a halt when he caught sight of something he could have sworn was human duck themselves down to the lower level of the city. He knew he'd felt eyes on him, but he wasn't sure what to make of it.

He finished his roll and had a few swallows of mead, pulling himself down the ladder and into the cistern with the half full bottle in his loose grasp. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the bottle was ripped from his hand, and his face shot up in confusion.

A Breton with an amused smirk and cold blue eyes lifted the bottle to his lips and drank, eyeing Brynjolf and offering the bottle back to him. With a toothy, handsome grin, he nodded towards the Nord once.

"You're Mercer's pet, aren't you?"

Brynjolf's jaw flexed, and he walked past the man, setting the bottle on a table as he strode away.

"I'm no pet."

"Right."

The Nord didn't even bother to turn around, still tense with anger and red around the ears from the statement. Where in Oblivion was this all coming from? Pet… Why was he known as a pet? He didn't want to be a damned pet. This was all so fast and confusing and Mercer wasn't explaining anything to him, as if he wanted to make it more difficult for him to find his way.

With a sigh, he pushed open the door to the Flagon. As soon as he stepped in, Delvin shot him a smile and Vekel eyes sharp as daggers.

"So, what did the guild master say, hmm? Is he alright now?"

His voice was still strongly affected by his nose and for some reason Brynjolf had a feeling it would always stay this way.

The Nord slid a hand across the table and paused, staring directly at Vekel as he spoke to Delvin. "He says you've moved up and that you're in charge while we're gone."

The Breton grinned, nodding. "About damn time. Where are you lot off to?"

Brynjolf hesitated, his eyes lowering. "I'm not sure, to be honest. But he seems ready to go, so it can't be that bad, right?"

Delvin shot him a grim look. "Be prepared and don't get yourself killed, kid. Take some potions off Mercer's desk. There's a knapsack in the training room, so grab that too. You'll need it."

The Nord gave him an odd look before Delvin shooed him away with a flick of his wrist. Confused, the redhead stepped back through the faux closet and back into the cistern. The man with cold eyes gave him a smile that didn't meet his eyes, and Brynjolf shook it off with a small shiver. He felt like this one was trouble.

He pushed open a door experimentally to be met with the sight of a winding but lit hallway. He followed it and came to a room full of dummies and targets riddled with arrows. Up on some crates to his left, and empty knapsack was turned inside out. Scooping it up, he righted it, hearing the faint clink of a few gold coins in the front pocket. Turning, he hit hard muscle face first, and I stumbled back, barely catching his balance.

"Damn it, leave me alone," he growled to the man, pushing past him and back into the cistern. With a lazy hand, he pushed the potion bottles into the pouch and buttoned it, slinging it onto his back and glancing down to make sure the man hadn't swiped his blade. Reassured it was still there, he turned to see the man leaned against the far side of the room against the slick stone wall.

"Have fun with Mercer, pet."

"What's your name?"

The man only chuckled, causing Brynjolf to seethe in silence as he left the cistern for the cold, damp air of Riften. He trudged to Frey's house, his face red as he tried to figure out what he could possibly do to get the other guild members to stop thinking about him as simply a pet.

He testing the front door, finding it unlocked. Steeping inside, he was pulled forward harshly and he went for his sword before realizing it was only Mercer tugging on the front straps of his leather tunic.

"Let's go, kid. I hope you're ready to venture into Avanchnzel."

The names sounded oddly familiar, but Brynjolf couldn't quite place it. "To where?"

Mercer only smirked in response, the gesture looking mean and scheming on his face. "Just be prepared. We'll leave in an hour."

Brynjolf grinned halfheartedly as Mercer let go of him. "You're not trying to kill me, are you?"

Frey let him go with a smirk and headed off into the other room to leave the Nord standing there with no answer.

Brynjolf strode after him, attempting to swallow the nervousness building in his throat. "Are you?" He stepped over the threshold of the room to see Mercer tucking a few items into a knapsack. In confusion, Brynjolf patted his shoulder and realized Mercer had somehow taken it off him without breaking it.

After a few agonizingly slow moments, the Breton finally spoke. "Why would I want to kill my little pet, hmm?"

Brynjolf's face was as red as his hair as he heard these words.

"You bastard."

Mercer turned to stare at him, intimidating even while sitting on the floor and systematically picking things from a bottom shelf next to his bed. Brynjolf returned the gaze, and then Frey chuckled for the first time.

"Someday, you'll thank me."

"We'll see," the Nord growled under his breath as he crossed his arms.


	6. Now or Never

_(AN: Whew! Updating stories like mad today, hope I'm not irritating you guys. Hope you enjoy, and thank you so much for all the feedback. I hope this pace is suitable for the pairing, and I really hope I'm keeping them in character.)_

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The walk down the streets of Riften was silent, save for the greetings that were thrown at Mercer's feet as the two trudged on. The weather was gloomy, reflecting grey skies off the water of the city. A heavy mist hung in the air, and it made Brynjolf's stomach do uneasy flips for reasons unknown to him. His head down, he was secretly terrified someone would recognize him as the kid who escaped from jail. The Nord did the best he could to prevent himself from simply clinging on to his guild master, swallowing nervousness down his throat and past the beating heart that had lodged its way towards his neck as well.

Brynjolf's hands were shaking like tattered leaves in the wind as the two came to the city gates. The guards simply let them through, Mercer pushing the left side open with a hand. He turned to Brynjolf, who stood there, stock-still in shock.

"Hurry up; I'm not a patient man."

So the Nord nodded, green eyes blank, as he walked through the open door. Mercer slammed the gate shut behind him, giving him a thoroughly pissed off expression.

"If you want to stay behind, you're more than welcome to. I don't have time for trivialities."

"Sorry," was all the red-haired young man could muster forward from tight lips.

Mercer was walking away from him, his stride terse and dead-set with purpose.

Brynjolf briefly, with a flicker of insanity sparking through his mind, wondered if he'd be of the same temperament in bed. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head almost painfully as he walked quickly after the Breton in front of him, his hand firmly on the pommel for the glass sword at his side.

Mercer didn't wait for him, and the Nord simply trailed a small ways behind him until the man finally stopped in the middle of the road. Brynjolf had been distracted by what he'd thought was a wolf just beyond a few trees, and he walked directly into Mercer's solid back, a small _'omph'_ escaping from his lips as he nearly tipped backwards. The Breton didn't budge, and it was almost comical when he whipped his head around to see the boy stumbling, trying to keep his balance in the most dignified manner he could.

Mercer only smirked at him.

"I wait for you, and you repay me by trying to knock me over?"

"N-no, sorry. I just, you caught me by surprise, and…" Brynjolf stuttered over his words, fumbling for an apology as Mercer's grin unfurled across his normally hard and unforgiving mug.

_Oh, Mercer was joking with him._

"Come on, kid. The ruins are just a little ways away, along the lakeside. Hope you're ready."

"What is Avanchnzel, Mercer?"

All the humor went from his eyes, and he sighed deeply, as if to imply Brynjolf was a complete idiot for not knowing exactly what he was speaking of.

"How long have you lived in the Rift, pet?"

Brynjolf gritted his teeth at the nickname.

"Quit your calling me that. I'm no one's pet."

Mercer turned on his heel, the side of his mouth pulling up into a ragged grin.

"Oh really, Brynjolf? That's not what my guild says. It seems you're pretty well locked in as my little plaything."

Brynjolf's blood rushed to his face as he gritted his teeth, fuming silently. Mercer bit his own lip to stop from laughing at the young Nord's anger, and he turned around without explaining so much as a word to him. The two walked on, and Mercer could almost feel the heat of Brynjolf's rage upon his back.

They continued their short walk, dispatching a pair of wolves on the way to the ruins. Brynjolf barely had time to lift his blade before mercer had all but slaughtered the two and began walking again.

"You're no help, are you?"

Brynjolf said nothing, having the inkling of feeling that Mercer was simply showing off and teasing him mercilessly as a twisted way of affection. He was his… pet, after all.

The Nord's eyes widened as they happened upon the curving, winding runs of stone built into the landscape.

"This is Avanchnzel; a pile of Dwarven ruins. It used to be a great civilization underneath our feet. It still is, but not in the same way as before."

"How so?"

Mercer grimaced at him, eyes clearly asking if he was completely stupid.

"The Dwemer race was wiped out. Did you learn nothing in the orphanage's classes?"

The color in Brynjolf's face drained. "How did you…?"

"I keep tabs on everything in this damned city, Brynjolf. I look for potential clients and for recruits with petty skill that can be honed into something half-useful. You should expect people to know you, even if now they ignore you completely. Joining the Thieves Guild is a blessing you shouldn't take lightly."

The Breton walked up the stone pathway, surefooted and silent as the Nord stared after him in shock as this information sank in.

The pair came to a heavy looking golden door built into the carved stone laying haphazardly into the cliff side. Mercer pushed it open with his weight, gritting his teeth as it began to budge open. Wordlessly, Brynjolf pressed his shoulder against it as well and it opened with a a few steady pushes. Inside was a set of deep, stone craved stairs that lead down to near darkness just below.

Brynjolf glanced to the Breton as he forced the door mostly shut behind them, leaving it a small way open so that if they needed to make a quick escape it would be available. The Nord stared down into the churning darkness, readying his blade in his right hand and gripping it expectantly as his stomach again did flips.

A warm, sweet kiss was pressed to the side of his throat, and Brynjolf nearly jumped out of his skin at the gentle touch. His mind swam briefly, not believing for a few moments that Mercer was capable of such a normal gesture of affection. It wasn't until teeth nipped harshly at the skin he'd kissed before the Nord finally accepted it was indeed Mercer who had given him the touch.

"Now or never. You ready?" The Breton's breath was hot in the shell of his ear, and Brynjolf swallowed and nodded wordlessly, walking side by side into the darkness with his guild master, swords bother at the ready.

Brynjolf had not a clue as to what they were doing here, and he was almost certain it wasn't something he'd be proud of later.


	7. A While

The murky darkness somehow sent Brynjolf to ease, relaxing his shoulders as his jaw finally couldn't see him, and for some reason it soothed him to know the man was at his side, but couldn't study the quick emotions on his face like he normally could. Questions were surfacing in his head, pressing against his lips as he slid his hand along the cold stone wall, finding his way forward as best he could. The Breton was close to him, shoulder occasionally pressing into his own as they moved.

"Mercer?"

"What do you want?"

His tone was irritated as always, sounding like he'd rip Brynjolf's head from his shoulders if he dared question him further.

"How long have you known me?"

He could almost picture the smirk crossing Mercer's face at the innocent question.

"A while." His voice was low, drawn out, and oddly suggestive.

Yes, the expression was evident in the way his voice trailed off. He was glad that in the pitch dark Mercer couldn't see the shivers crawl up his spine at the cold, calm words.

Brynjolf reached his hand out to place it lightly on Mercer's back. He felt the man tense and then relax under his grip as he apologized softly.

"I can't see anything."

"We're almost to light."

And as the words left the Breton's lips, Brynjolf's wide and searching green eyes could see filtered light leaking in from in front of him.

Mercer grasped his free hand and lead him forward like it was no big deal, but the (for once) gentle touch sent the Nord's heart to flutter.

He gritted his teeth at the feeling rising in his stomach. _Shit._

Trudging on, Brynjolf heard Mercer sheath his sword, and they entered a small, open cave. Holes in the stone overhead cast soft light to the floor below, allowing for water to drip in and foliage to sprout from the cracks below. Brynjolf skirted the edge of a puddle and Mercer dropped his hand, jerking back to look at the Nord.

"Last chance to turn around, Brynjolf. Dwemer ruins are not something to be messed around with. I want to get in and get out as quick as possible, but that doesn't mean the local wildlife will cut us any slack."

"Wildlife?"

Mercer turned to his, raising an eyebrow, not explaining anything. This practice seemed to be customary.

"It's your choice. I'm not going to drag you through, and I'll certainly not drag your body back to the Flagon if you don't make it."

His words rang true and forced the Nord to thickly swallow.

"I'll go. I can handle it."

"Hm, I'm sure."

His words were utterly sarcastic, but Brynjolf eased it away as he followed after the man, who went forward to push open the large golden door built into the cave wall. Stairs lead downwards, and the two walked on in the bright light coming from fireless sconces on the wall. Brynjolf was intrigued by the technology, but Mercer seemed impassive, marching straight on and redrawing his sword.

"Hear that?" He muttered under his breath, a slight hiss to his voice that set the Nord's teeth on edge. "Dwemer machinery. Deadly and sharp as the day they were built."

"Aye."

Mercer paused.

"Where the fuck did you get your accent?"

The question caught Brynjolf off-guard.

"What?"

"Your stupid accent. I've never heard anyone in Skyrim speak like that."

The Nord rolled his thoughts around for a moment as they stalked on.

"I… I guess it's just always been there; ever since I was a pup. My ol' dear mum had the same sort of…"

He paused as the stairs ended, catching sight of something golden _rolling_ along the stone floor. Mercer grinned humorlessly and stepped out in front of him, alerting the machinery of his presence. It changed direction and unrolled, lifting a golden head up to a surprising height, it's "arms" flicking blades in front of it. Brynjolf could have screamed out how stupid Mercer was right then, but the Breton casually stepped aside as it lunged towards him, striking it across the back hard. A shattering sound echoed the room, and the front plate of gold on its "chest" fell to the ground along with a shimmering crystal, which Mercer scooped up and tucked into one of the pockets covering his leather jerkin.

Brynjolf was stunned and simultaneously horrified. Mercer must have been dealing with these automations for years if he knew how to take them down so easily. Hell, his face hadn't even shifted expressions during the whole display.

"Come on, pet. Pick your jaw up off the ground while you're at it."

Brynjolf clamped his mouth shut and scratched at his nose in embarrassment, following after Mercer.

The hallway was huge, beautifully decorated and ornately fashioned in Dwarven style.

Or at least it had been. It looked untouched for so many years. Dust was settled on every surface, but curiously not on the golden piping built into the walls just beyond the gates. As the Nord moved closer to them he could hear running water and warmth radiating from them. A piping system. All of these machines may have been steam driven. The thought struck him and left his mind to wander with possibilities.

Mercer beckoned him over with his first two fingers as he began to round a corner. Brynjolf came to him silently, his blade still drawn in front of him.

"Falmer."

"What?"

Mercer clamped a hand over Brynjolf's mouth, raising a brow in annoyance.

"They're blind. We can sneak past them. Ugly as anything though, and they stink. Just don't breathe or look at them; they're _feeding_."

The redhead nodded, and Mercer unclasped his hand from around the younger's face.

"Good," he growled lowly, the sound sending Brynjolf's knees to weaken.

Mercer ducked in front of him, leading the way quickly and without a sound. Brynjolf followed obediently, noiselessly, daring to take a quick glance at these creatures. Lanky, pale, hunched, eyeless. A few of them bent over something bloody and picked at it with long nails and teeth sharper than Brynjolf's blade. Gods. He couldn't even catch his breath as the smell of rotten meat and congealed blood hit his nose. He took a sharp breath and heard the air leave Mercer in worry. Shit.

The exit was so close, the door slightly open just enough to be able to properly squeeze in and shut it behind them. Mercer shoved Brynjolf in before him, and it oddly felt comforting to know he valued the Nord's safety before his own.

Or perhaps he was leading him into a trap or immediate death at the hands of Falmer just beyond the door. The Falmer never lifted their heads to the sound he'd so accidentally made.

But no. Mercer followed him only a second later, shutting the door with great care and sighing in relief as Brynjolf stared at him, wide eyed and expectant.

Mercer leaned forward and wrapped his fingers around Brynjolf's throat.

"Never again will you convince me to take you on another trip. After this, you're on your own. Do I make myself clear?"

Brynjolf nodded wordlessly, and Mercer released him, sharp eyes daring him to speak out against what he'd just said.

"Mercer, what are we doing here?"

The Breton gritted his teeth and walked on.

"Looting bodies." Brynjolf's words stuck in his throat.

"We're doing what?"

"I said we're looting bodies. That note Delvin sent you out to get was a lead and this is where it lead to. They're just up ahead. Hopefully our dead informant wasn't screwing around with us before he was tortured to death by the city guard."

"Tortured?"

"If you can't pay your way out, you don't get out. And if you're not an asset to Maven Black-Briar, you're dead."

"Who is Maven?"

Mercer's lip lifted, and he gritted his teeth at the question.

"She's practically in control of Riften; got the idiot jarl and the Riften guard snug in her pocket. You know her. Rich woman, dark haired, constantly looks bored."

Brynjolf nodded quickly, her image appearing in his mind's eye.

"The bitch who lets Grelod still run the orphanage."

Mercer nodded, and then spoke hesitantly.

"Maven's my ex-fiancée."

The words blurted from Brynjolf's lips before he could top them, a surprised laugh escaping around the edges. "What?!"

To his deep and stomach turning surprise, Mercer looked back at him as they walked on, a guilty look crossing his face. Brynjolf couldn't stop laughing, and Mercer's face turned steadily redder.

"I'll explain later. We have remains to search and then we need to leave as quickly as we can." He strode away from the still shaking man, and Brynjolf wiped the silent tears of laughter away from his eyes.

Damn, this was too good. Mercer was indeed full of surprises.


	8. Waste of Time

_(A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys. Thank you so much for all of the favs, reviews, and follows for this story. I feel so honored. Here's another chapter, and I hope you enjoy.)  
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Brynjolf nearly choked on the smell before he'd actually registered what it was. His eyes filled with more tears, and he pressed his hand over his mouth and nose, throat stinging. Mercer merely lifted his lip in disgust, drawing his sword as they rounded a corner. Two bloated corpses (both male, a Wood Elf and an Imperial), pooled in decomposition liquids, fingers chewed away to the bone. Brynjolf had to turn away from the sight to keep himself from losing his stomach, but was met with the sight of streaked and slicked dry blood on the golden metal pipework. He closed his eyes briefly as his head swam at the sheer amount.

"Looks like we found them," Mercer muttered, stepping forward with a look of discontent. Raising his blade, he pressed the Imperial's arm aside, sliding it away as casually as one would open a door.

"Ah."

Brynjolf heard the crackling of bones, and Mercer grunted before he heard something snap very dryly, the sound smacking the air around them. He turned to see Mercer walking back towards him, a grim look on his face and a blood printed slip of thick parchment in his fingers.

"Looks like we've got a problem. Someone's been here before us. These two worthless thieves got themselves into trouble before skipping out on the guild. It seems someone was following them before we were." Frey tucked the note into one of the pouches on his jerkin and raised an eyebrow in wait.

"So it was a waste of time?" The Nord knew he was being blunt, but the way Mercer's mouth was pressed into a hard line made him expect as much.

"Not quite. Delvin had a lead they didn't. Let's go."

Brynjolf paused, allowing his eyes to slide to Mercer's eyes. The Breton met him with a hard, stony stare, and Brynjolf could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise for reasons he didn't understand. Mercer stepped forward to him, his face unreadable as Brynjolf struggled to keep composure. With a hint of self-satisfaction, Brynjolf realized he was a bit taller than his guild master.

But seconds later, as the two trudged back down the hallway and out of the ruins the way they came, he realized he felt horribly small next to the man. The Falmer had left the large room, and it relieved Brynjolf a bit, allowing him to relax his shoulder. The cave entrance was no longer peeking sunlight through the holes through the overhead stone, and it left the Nord to wonder how long they'd actually been in the ruins. It had only felt like a few moments, in all actuality, but it must have closer to an hour if the sun was already setting.

It was only until Mercer pushed the gold door open and the Nord stepped back into Skyrim that he felt like his lungs were clean. It was still daylight; that he knew. But grey clouds loomed overhead, heavy with rain and blocking out the warmth of the sun. Mist clouded much of everything, and the Nord couldn't see more than ten feet in front of him.

Mercer pressed past him, his warm breath ghosting on Brynjolf's exposed neck before stepping down the winding stone bridgework. The redhead followed without a sound, his eyes trained on the purposeful way his guild master walked and wondered if others found it oddly entrancing as he did—the commanding presence and haughty air that surrounded him.

He finally caught up with Mercer as the Breton looked back in annoyance after a few minutes of walking; realizing Brynjolf wasn't at his side. Seeing his glare, Brynjolf hurried to his side silently as the two trudged on in complete and utter quiet as Skyrim engulfed the two in thick swirls of fog.

It seemed the trip back was longer than the trip there, but it was mostly because most of it was spent in uncomfortable whist. Nothing around them stirred, and more than a few times, Brynjolf wondered if the were even heading back the right way to Riften.

He gave an internal sigh when they reached the familiar stables of the town, hearing horses whinny and whine in the white mists, feet trampling wet dewy grass and cobble.

The two guards didn't pay the thieves any mind as Mercer opened the gates of Riften and walked inside, leaving Brynjolf to trail after him like a willing puppy.

He turned left at the market circle, ignoring the merchants who straightened as the two passed. He opened the heavy latch to Riftweald and pressed the door open, leaving Brynjolf to uncomfortably wonder if he was supposed to follow or not. Mercer simply turned around and rolled his eyes at the Nord, jerking his head sideways to usher him into the manor. The Breton shut the door after his pet entered, tugging off his pouched belts and finally unlacing his jerkin and tossing it through his open bedroom door. The redhead looked up just in time to see his muscled back straining, faded scars and old wounds tugging at skin. He was very well in shape for someone that Brynjolf assumed was in his mid-thirties; running around Dwemer ruins must have that effect on a man.

He turned slightly to Brynjolf, raising a brow.

"I'll be in bed."

The Nord nodded absentmindedly, thinking the statement completely innocent. Then he caught sight of the smirk working its way across the Breton's face, and his cheeks began to burn.

"What was that?"

Frey walked into his bedroom and Brynjolf stood there frozen, thoughts buzzing around uselessly in his mind. He followed, his jaw clenched in worry. Mercer sat in bed, still in his leathers and boots, and as he stepped inside, the Breton motioned for him to join him on the huge green blankets. Chillrend and its sheath were leaned against the far wall, and Brynjolf set his blade aside as well, unhooking the hostler from his belt and laying it away from the slowly burning hearth.

Brynjolf obeyed, only to be pressed down automatically by demanding hands, unbuckling the various straps to the Nord's armor with quick, well-practiced fingers. Lips replaced those rough pads, nibbling the younger's flesh as Brynjolf's palms tightened, knuckles snow-white as they gripped the bed sheets below. It was all soothing, but Brynjolf couldn't stop his muscles from jumping, his heat from speeding up at the light touches Mercer offered to his skin, his mind from wandering.

He was barely aware of his jerkin being tugged up and over his head, eventually lifting it off the rest of the way himself. With the warmth of his chest exposed, Mercer buried his face into the Nord's neck and the warmth of his breath drove Brynjolf to sudden exhaustion as his muscles finally began to relax.

There were no snarky comments from his guild master, no violent bites and nips to send his flesh to burn, no fingers clenched and bruising his throat. It was just the two of them in a sort of bittersweet soft embrace on Mercer's bed. Unthinking, silent, and there to comfort the other.

The two fell to sleep as the fire died in front of them.


	9. Incentive

The Nord awoke with jolting pain in his back and the sound of a door slamming. Sitting bolt upright, he panicked momentarily as his mind clawed in his skull, trying to make sense of where he was.

Oh, right. Mercer's place. He'd slept with him. Well, not in the sexual sense; they had held each other.

_It had been… nice? Was that the word to use?_

Frey was gone. The green blankets were still folded down, but held none of the Breton's familiar body heat. The hearth, which he'd expected to be mere ashes, had been swept and was glowing with licking flames again.

I made him inexplicably uneasy that Mercer had gone through the trouble of relighting the fire and being quiet enough to not wake him in the process. His head swam briefly, trying to grasp for reasons. He had almost expected Mercer to at least kick him out of the house come day, maybe even break a few of his fingers for his foolish move in the ruins yesterday. Yet here he was, still in a warm bed with digits still intact.

His fingers loosened from the sheets, and his shoulders relaxed as he realized he had no real reason to be fully-tensed with Mercer not around. His bright gaze shifted to the doorway, where his glass sword still lay in its sheath, ready to go when he was. He stood up out of bed, joints protesting with small pops, and he snatched his leather jerkin up off the ground.

Wait, no. This was dark leather, not his light brown armor. His face reddened, and he scanned the room, looking for his clothes and finding nothing.

So, Mercer had worn his clothes to… wherever he was going. Perfect. Brynjolf's stomach turned, and he cursed to himself, hoping the Breton wasn't parading around the guild with his jerkin on.

No, actually, that must be what he was doing. Mercer had reasons for everything, always dead-set on purpose. Brynjolf was being shown off, and Mercer was showing the guild who owned him.

_His pet_.

Brynjolf was going to strangle him.

And what in Oblivion was he supposed to wear? Brynjolf could fit into Mercer's clothes, but damn it if he was going to wear them willingly. So he gritted his teeth and shoved on his boots, not bothering to buckle the straps, and walked out into the main hallway of the house. He was met with a steely-eyed glare and a throaty growl.

Mercer was sitting at the table, notes scattered out in front of him. He looked red-eyed and exhausted, and Brynjolf couldn't help but wonder if he'd actually slept last night. Upon closer inspection, he realized the Breton wasn't, in fact, wearing his jerkin, but in fact was wearing a simple white undershirt. But the darkness under his eyes was even more pronounced, and the Nord felt himself wanting to edge away and slump back into bed.

"Sit." It was a command, and Brynjolf hesitantly obeyed, pulling out the chair opposite Mercer and relaxed on it. He felt a bit like a trained dog, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond to that feeling. He shrugged it off, eyes on Mercer, waiting for further direction.

Frey propped his elbows up on the desk, pressing his palms to his eyes and kneading the sleep away as he yawned. Brynjolf felt a bit odd to see his guild master let down his guard like this in front of him. Either Mercer trusted him by now, or he was aware that if Brynjolf tried anything funny he could take the Nord out easily. Brynjolf expected the latter.

Mercer's arms fell from his face and rested on the table, palms up, as he gave a huff of a sigh.

"I have a job for you. I need you to prove to me that you're not wasting my time here. So far, you're been close to worthless."

The Nord raised an eyebrow, slightly annoyed and ready to protest, but Mercer simply tilted his head and tightened his jaw in warning.

"Just tell me what I need to do, Mercer."

Brynjolf was too tired to protest, too exasperated to come up with any sort of rebuttal to Mercer's harsh words. The Breton smiled in a way that made his eyes sharp with something akin to hunger, and the redhead felt himself pull back momentarily, perplexed.

"I need you to go to Whiterun and speak to one of our fences there."

"Fences?" Brynjolf raised a brow, wondering why in Oblivion Mercer wanted him to speak to a damned… Oh. He could have slapped himself in his sleep-hazed state, kicking his mind awake as he tried to get the wheels working.

"His name is Mallus. He's young, but he knows the business… better than you, at least."

The Nord felt the strong urge to roll his eyes at the last gravely mutter, but he knew if he did Mercer was probably capable of lunging across the table like a sabre cat and tearing them out if he felt the urge. _Coiled power all curled up in a chair in front of him_.

A map was brushed Brynjolf's way, a clearly marked red circle near the outline of Whiterun's capitol.

"Go there; see what Mallus wants to give me for the latest shipment. Don't let him try and write you off, don't let him get away with any shit. He's a slimy bastard." Mercer seemed to smile fondly at this. "He reminds me of myself when I was that age."

Brynjolf cocked a brow. "I'm not sure I want to see you get all sentimental on me, Mercer."

"Don't come back to Riften until you've got it all sorted out. I don't even want to see your face again if you end up fucking this deal. He owes us big, and he knows. Skooma doesn't come cheap."

"So, is this guild business?"

Mercer only smirked. "Just do what I say and don't worry about minor details. If you're not back in three days, I'm sending Dirge after you."

"The big one? You think he knows how to read a map?"

"If I put him on a scent, he goes for the kill." The threat was growled under a thin tone of hatred that sent little shivers of arousal down Brynjolf's spine; not because he was scared of Dirge, but because of the glint in the Breton's eyes as he threatened him.

Fuck, was he really getting turned on by Mercer trying to intimidate him? The question made him a bit sick to his stomach, and he felt his fingertips dig into his leathers.

"You're leaving. Get a horse from the stable and get going."

Brynjolf sighed, tossing his head to the side and shooting Mercer an unamused look.

"I need my jerkin."

Mercer sneered at him. "Did you even bother to look under the bed? Get out of my sight."

Brynjolf stood, supposing that was the best "goodbye, good luck" he was going to get. It was an odd contrast to the Mercer who was only minutes ago curled up on his chest, dead asleep. He walked back into her bedroom, rolling his shoulders before sinking to his knees to retrieve his jerkin from under the bed. He shoved the undershirt on, tying it, and slid the vest over, buckling that various straps before stalking back out and unlatching the front door.

"Mercer, what is my incentive for this?"

He heard a shuffle of papers behind him, and he turned his head back, palm pressed flat to the wood of the door, hesitant to leave.

"Your incentive is that I don't kill you."

The Breton said this matter-of-factly, not looking up from his reading as he scribbled something down on a slip of parchment with a short quill.

"You're forgetting something," Mercer half-sang, mocking Brynjolf as the Nord's face burned in response. He slipped back into the bedroom, grabbing his sword, and fastening the holster to his side and pressing the door open.

"Goodbye, Mercer."

His guild master was quiet for a moment, taken aback by his quiet farewell, and then Brynjolf heard him chuckle darkly.

"Get out of my house, Brynjolf."

The Nord grinned and shut the door behind him, immediately embraced by the familiar darkness of the small hours of the Riften morning.

* * *

_(A/N: Wow, thank you all so much for all of the faves, follows, and reviews. Things after this chapter will start moving a little bit quicker and getting a bit more interesting.)_


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